


Telephone

by hauntedpoem



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Asexual Character, Canon Divergence, Crack-ish, Creative Process, Formenos, I mean melkor is really weird, I think Caranthir sounds like a polite and reasonable dude, Maglor and his music, Modern Day Elves, Modern Setting, Obsession, One man band Maglor, Other, Phone Masturbation, Phone Sex, Really Really Weird, a bit of revenge, almost, caranthir is a chill dude, caranthir is unfazed by it, caranthir the magical, happy feanorions, more like, no kinslaying, phone pervert melkor, sexually awkward melkor, some bland dirty talk, some dirty talk, the famous morifinwean anger, things aren't so tragic in this AU, unrequited Melkor/Feanor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-28
Updated: 2017-03-01
Packaged: 2018-09-27 13:44:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10023443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hauntedpoem/pseuds/hauntedpoem
Summary: Melkor has a thing for Feanaro. He should put the phone down.





	1. Carnistir

**Author's Note:**

> this is silly. I mean... really silly.  
> I have no excuse. but I love Carnistir. To me, he's the ultimate cool bro.

The telephone rings.

Insistently. For at least five minutes. All he wants to do is sleep. Carnistir sets the pillow over his head in hope of blocking the annoying sound.

He almost drifted back to sleep when it begins again. It rings and rings. And rings some more.

“Someone pick up the phone!” he yells descending two steps at a time.

Tyelko got to it first, and Carnistir watches with bleary eyes, mouth dry from sleep. His brother picks it up, picks up the receiver, frowns for a while then slams it down.

“Well fuck you too!”

“Who was it?” He asks more intrigued than it’s polite for a Noldo but the Fëanorions have never aligned with the societal expectations of Tirion these days, anyway.

“A random pervert. You should probably stay away from the phone until father talks to the service provider and changes our number.” He seems ready to leave the house and Carnistir doesn’t even know what time of the day is. Well… he’s sure of one thing. It’s not morning. It’s almost evening. This means he slept for 17 hours straight.

“Just go back to sleep, bro.”

Carnistir wants to pee so he comes down and joins Tyelkormo in the living room. “Where are you heading? You look good. You smell good.”

“Well…  it’s Aredhel’s exhibition. I mean… what’s the point of hiring a bodyguard? She has me. I’ll be there for her.”

Carnistir nods and heads to the toilet. His bladder is full. He is amazed he could sleep for so long without wetting his bed. He swears that half of his dreams consisted of him looking for a toilet in his uncle’s mansion. At some point, he found a large vase but he was stopped by Anairë.

Everyone’s been leaving these days. It seems that for some strange reason, they’ve finally given in to the urges of fucking their own cousins. Nelyo moved with Findekáno after their engagement and Tyelko started dating Aredhel, now a divorcee and mother of baby Maeglin. For a while they even debated whether she should attend her own photography exhibition, seeing as her murderous ex did not waste an opportunity to stalk her. Curufinwë spends most of his weekends at his girlfriend’s and the twins are off to summer school.

Maglor is depressed. Which means he rarely leaves the annexe.  He practically lived indoors for the past two weeks or so, according to Carnistir’s calendar.

Nerdanel and  Fëanáro are surprisingly back together as a married couple. It took them almost a decade but they came around. Fëanáro is listed as living here in Formenos but he’s spent the past year in Tirion. He went through some misunderstanding with Melkor the Vala but things have calmed down considerably since Nerdanel convinced him to stop obsessing about the Silmarils. So he donated them for a good cause and now they are exposed in the Oiolossë  Museum of Art and Science. Apparently, they are the Mona Lisa of Valinor.

Melkor did not want to let go. In fact, he reverted to harassing Fëanáro wherever and whenever he could.

Carnistir barely finishes drying his hands that the phone starts to ring again, obnoxious and mind-numbingly loud. He hurries to slam it back or probably unplug it completely but curiosity eats at him.

He picks it up and short of breath, whispers “Hello?”

Someone’s breathing rapidly in the receiver. Carnistir thinks for a second to just unplug the cord and be rid of annoying phone calls for the rest of his stay in Formenos. However, something feels odd about it. A shivery breath, strange noises in the background, meaning that someone’s worked up.

“Hello?” He tries again. It is so bizarre to hear his own voice reverberating, sounding young and funny, cracking on the consonants. He immediately berates himself for thinking this. It is absurd. He’s just woken up from unpleasant toilet dreams.

He rakes a hand through his shoulder length hair. It’s become colder in this season. He should have brought his duvet with him and worn it like a huge, disproportionate parka. Instinctively, he reaches a hand for an abandoned quilt on the sofa and wraps it around his body. His teeth are chattering.

He yawns, forgetting for a second that there is most definitely someone on the line.

A weirdo.

“This isn’t funny!” he sneezes directly in the speaker and he feels like peeing again. His feet are ice cold and he yelps at the unpleasant feeling. He sneezes again, and his head shakes with it.

“Ah, my head!”

He almost forgot about the phone, now cradled between ear and shoulder. Carnistir forces himself into the lotus position and looks into the box of tissues. Three left. He blows his nose noisily.

His head hurts whenever he moves it, especially when he looks down at things. His temples feel as if they're being squeezed in a vice. That's how it's like to be one of those wiggly liquid toys in the hands of a very annoying and destructive kid.

“Achoo!”

But why can’t he stop his head from moving as he sneezes? This is so complicated, he thinks and starts palming the soles of his feet hoping to warm them up.

“Are you all right?” The voice is masculine but smooth, devoid of the asperities and inflexions he’s rather used to. It is eerily appealing, caressing his ear, sending shivers down his spine. The harsh breathing has been replaced by this politely concerned headless, faceless voice.

Carnistir feels the need to clear his throat. He swallows thickly and holds the phone at a distance now, curiously looking at it as if expecting a man to come out from the tiny holes of the receiver.

“Erm…” very articulate, Carnistir. “I think so…” he says although he sounds far too anxious. In fact, just by hearing his own voice he can tell he’s unwell. Where is his wit when he needs it?

“What are you wearing?” The man asks and it’s such a weird question. It sounds as if it was meant to sound seductive but the effect is distorted. Instead, it just sounds clinical. Maybe he is concerned, although Carnistir is too out of it to read subtleties

“What?”

“What are you wearing?”

On a whim, he decides to answer. He should ask for professional advice, not spend his time on the phone with random strangers.

“Erm… a blanket,” Carnistir curses himself for his honesty but decides to continue, “tee and boxers. Why?”

“Oh.” Said the stranger. Just ‘oh’, and he can swear it sounded as unenthusiastic as it was meant to.

“Well, I’m cold.” His teeth chatter. And it’s not even that cold. His body decided to end the party. “I should probably go back to bed. Bye.”

As he bends to put the phone on its hook, he can hear the man saying something that sounds like “Wait.” But Carnistir feels really awful. He needs a hot shower.

*

He’s been under the hot spray for a while now and gradually, the temperature caught up with the rest of his body. He taps his skin with a fluffy towel and puts his bathrobe on, then wraps his head in a turban. Carnistir really likes red.

The ears of his bunny slippers bounce with every step he takes. He changes immediately in flannel trousers and pulls a sweater on. Seeing how he already decided to make some willow bark tea to get the fever out, he tries to keep away from getting more sick and he powers his the blow dryer to get the water out of his hair.

But the telephone rings. Again.

And again.

And again.

In spite of it, Carnistir pushes on the max button and he can feel his gums and the inside of his nose getting the drying treatment of their life.

When he decides it is enough of it, the ringing has miraculously stopped. He exhales with relief and continues his post-bathing routine.  He takes his medicine then drinks his tea slowly, with a spoonful of honey and a slice of lemon. He cuddles in his bed under the duvet. He feels better, warm and safe. 

But not for long, because the phone rings and rings and rings.

And no amount of swearing can make it better because Carnistir decided he will not waste his breath on meaningless things that chip away the glory that is eternal elven life. As carefully as possible, he wakes, pulls the duvet around him and descends the stairs.

He is not upset. Not really. His head doesn’t hurt anymore and there’s a nice feeling settling in the back of his head.

“Hello?” he picks up the receiver with the confidence of a man that feels better.

Again, the breathing.

“Oh, hello.” It’s the stranger, managing to sound as unenthusiastic as ever and at the same time quite sensual. “Are you feeling better?”

The tone is deceptively caring but Carnistir feels the shivers on his spine.

“Actually, yes. A hot shower and some tea seemed to have solved the problem for me.”

“Oh.” It was growing redundant. Is this all he was capable of?

Carnistir refused to give him any more information. “Who are you and what do you want?”

Silence. Thick silence.

“That’s not important.” He could hear a long, dragged out weary sigh. “What are you wearing?” the heavy breathing started again and before he had a chance to reply in outrage, the stranger continues “I am naked… I want to warm you up from the inside. I want to fuck you hard. ” It seemed funny that there was no desire lacing the stranger’s voice, they might as well be reading weather reports from yesterday’s paper to him. A complete turn-off.

“Well, I’d like to fuck you too, even harder.” Carnistir got bored pretty quickly and two could play the game so he decided to give it a go.

 “Oh yes… Would you? How hard?”

“I would give it to you very hard. Impossibly hard. Until you faint-hard.” It was getting cold again. He tried to perch on the couch and pulled the duvet about him. The stranger started breathing heavily on the other end. Carnistir had to keep the phone away from him or else his migraine would return.

“Are you all right?”

A strained “yes” could be heard. Then “keep going”.

“I’ll slam into you until you see stars; I’ll tie you up so you cannot play with yourself. How’s that going it for you?”

“Oh… Oh… Just great, keep it coming.” The man practically growled.

“Say please. Get down on your knees and beg me.”

More laboured breathing. “Fine. I am on my knees. Please, may I come?”

Carnistir was slowly brushing his hair with his fingers, detangling it gently. “Ask again.”

“Please! I beg thee, let me come!”

“Did you get on your knees as I asked you to?”

“Yes, oh yes!”

Carnistir could hear the man, who was indeed begging for release. He did feel a bit flushed; he could admit that it affected him a bit. He could imagine him masturbating. It didn’t seem half bad.

“Very well, you may come.”

He heard frantic movement, something slamming into flesh and a strangled out _Fëanáro_ being let out.

“I’m not Fëanáro.” He said, feeling his temper flaring slightly.

“Wha’?” The voice seemed exhausted, far away in post-orgasmic bliss.

“I said I’m not Fëanáro. You masturbated to the wrong person.”

“Oh… I knew that.”

Irritated, Carnistir hung up and pulled the wire from the back of the phone. 

 

 -End-

 


	2. Makalaurë

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Melkor should have known when to stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic contains two of my favourite Feanorions. It's just a silly fic and I enjoyed writing it very much.  
> I can only hope you find it at least amusing!  
> -  
> I chose to use the Quenya names for all the characters.

 

His days of sadness had long since passed. He understands himself better. If her love was not for him, then he released her to her choices. He cannot be upset about something that he himself has hidden from her.

He is unable to offer her sex. And all this time, she has mistaken him for a patient guy. And he is not. He is not that. He is something else, which he’s come to accept only later with the encouragement of his father who tired of seeing him so miserable all the time. Miserable and in love.

That wasn’t love, only apprehension. And that changed quickly in the light of accepting his asexuality. This is what he is and it works fine for him. It's strange that she used to joke that music is his mistress. His only mistress.

With the headphones tight over his ears, Makalaurë is unaware of his surroundings.  All that remains is music. He is completely focused on that. He’s been composing for the past two weeks and he’s yet to be pleased, not for lacking in talent. Doing everything on your own is not an easy feat. For all it’s worth, Makalaurë is a one-man band.

He hasn’t touched his harp in years, ever since the debacle with his uncle. He left most of his instruments in Tirion and only took to Formenos what he could carry. Violins, flutes, guitars. But as he settled in he decided to set his studio in the annexe.  In the largest room, he hosts a grand piano. He has now a new harp. Well… he has many other harps and seeing how he has all the time in the world, he began creating instruments of his own.

But the harp is still his favourite instrument, the one he fell in love with. Creation of music is his power. He uses it to spread the ethereal beauty of the song of one and he uses his voice, about which the elves say that has been blessed by Eru Ilúvatar himself. He’s proud of it and wishes to honour it and share it.  

He listens to the harp pieces on his phone and tries to follow the developments of his music. There it is… that part… he’s not very fond of because it reeks of loneliness. He needs to change that.

He mutes the music and moves on to write down the alterations he will make. There is a noise. It’s subtle but … oh yes… the telephone.

Makalaurë exhales, gets up and straightens his spine. The vertebrae in his neck crack and protest. He stretches like a cat. Unhurried and exhausted he goes to pick the phone. Who would it be? One of his brothers, Carnistir perhaps, asking if he’s hungry perhaps…?

“Hello?”

There is only heavy breathing, and then a  man’s raspy voice.

“What are you wearing?”

Whatever he expected, it wasn’t this.

“What?”

“What are you wearing? I’m naked. And horny…”

Something about that voice… there is something about that voice, he keeps thinking.

“Ooh… Touch me… ahh... Please…” The stranger continues unabated.

He’s sure he heard that voice somewhere, even though all that comes out of the receiver are grunts and slick, wet sounds.

It wouldn’t do to be a musician of his calibre and be incapable of distinguishing voices and recognising sound origins.

“Like that… yeah…” The stranger continues and it doesn’t take a scientist like Curufinwe to know what he’s been doing. What he’s still doing.

He knows it very well. In fact, he’s heard it in this very house in Formenos, a week after his father created the Silmarils. Back then, they talked in hushed, secretive tones. Now, however…

“Aaah…  _Fëanáro_  !”

It’s Melkor.

 The lust for revenge twists in Makalaurë’s usually gentle heart. His delicate ears, assaulted by such pollution! His disgust manifests in the only way he understands how. Makalaurë knows it isn’t worth it. He knows it is petty. But he just cannot ignore it.  He records Melkor's filthy masturbatory fantasies and the next day, a new song is available for free streaming.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are real treats!  
> <3


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